Post election blues

We’ve just endured a political season that stirred up anger and hatred in this nation that might not subside for quite some time.

As we try to recover our equilibrium, it helps to recognize what we gained…especially as women.

Although she didn’t make it to the presidency, Hillary Clinton won the popular vote and demonstrated to us and to our children and grandchildren that yes, a women might well lead this country one day. On the threshold of her 8th decade, Hillary Clinton had the will, the knowledge, and the talent, and felt ready to take on the enormous job of President of the United States of America.

Our daughters and granddaughters can know that anything is possible for women in the years ahead — gender and age no longer barriers to success.

Patricia, I don’t think they’re going to be hurt by Hillary not winning. They being hurt by Donald Trump winning. He created this ugly environment and there were so many more worthy candidates than him.

I agree! Whether you thought she was a good candidate or not is irrelevant to her being a woman. She has paved the way for women in many ways. She came up through the trenches in a tough political environment that many of us could never have endured. She has shown she has stamina and skill, and that has to be admired by both men and women. Her whole life was dedicated to public service.

I too am disheartened from the election results and the aftermath. It seems like an ongoing nightmare. I only hope we muster all our energies to not try to normalize this backward slide and that we use our “views from the mountaintop” politically everyday with our local, state and federal representatives and urge our children and grandchildren to do the same with letters, petitions, phone calls and the like. I truly believe this to be the most important job of our lives right now. We elders in our seventies must show the world that we still know how to fight for what is right and just and refuse to be silent about what is not.

Anne Linstatter ​​​​​​​​
Jan. 23, 2017
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One for All, and All for One

“What day is it?” The doctor’s serious brown face loomed inches from mine.
“Saturday,” I said weakly.
“What day?” she demanded, her black eyes intense.
“January 21. The women’s march. Trump is president, unfortunately,” I replied. I knew the drill; my mother had had to answer these questions when her cognitive state was being tested for Alzheimer’s.
I had stumbled into the seat, emptied for me, shortly after fainting on the Metro train riding from Santa Monica to downtown Los Angeles.
Boarding in a tremendous crush of people at 8 am, I hadn’t thought to remove my sweatshirt. It was 47 degrees outside but inside the Metro car jammed with bodies, the temperature rose quickly. One or two more people from the crowds on the platform demanded to squeeze onto the train at every stop, though we were packed so tightly we could barely move.
“I think I’m going to faint,” said the woman next to me.
“I feel like fainting too,” I said, not really thinking it would happen.
Then she went limp, still held up by the bodies around her, and people were dragging her to a seat given up by a younger rider.
Watching as they gave her water, I slowly drifted into dreamland but woke to remember I was on a train. Next I was throwing a ball for my dog, but suddenly I too was being moved to a seat next to her.
“Give her water,” said a woman pressing her way through the riders. “I’m an ER doctor.”
“I can’t feel any pulse,” she said, her thin fingers pressing into my wrist.
“I have low blood pressure,” I said. “And premature atrial contractions.”
“We need to get you off at the next stop,” she said. “You can’t march. Is there someone who could come pick you up?”
I stared at her. Standing up felt impossible, and if I got off the train, I would never get on one again for hours. “I want to stay on,” I mumbled.
As the last of the 17 stops between Santa Monica and downtown slowly passed, the doctor kept testing the pulses of my fellow traveler and me.
“Her pulse is normal now, but I can’t feel any pulse on you,” she said. “We’ll call for an EMT team and stay with you. You might be having a heart attack.”
As we arrived at the final station, seven women held me up and carried my backpack, sweatshirt, and sign.
I lay down on the cement near the wall of the platform for half an hour, relieved to have fresher air and rest. In their pink knit caps, they all stood around me debating what to do.
“Don’t call EMT,” I begged. “I just want to sit down outside. Thank you all for your help.”
Finally I was able to sit up; they held my arms and led me to the escalator. Outside the station, I sat down against the wall. I didn’t notice how chilly it was until they told me to put my sweatshirt on. I finished a second bottle of water.
“Call your family,” the doctor insisted. I agreed to text my husband and daughters, remembering that one daughter was attending the march. When I called her, I found out she and her friends had been unable to get on a train. They had driven part-way and now we’re taking an Uber.
After I promised to meet up with my daughter Ellen, the doctor and her daughter left for the march. Two women stayed with me as I rested another half hour and then held my arm as we finally walked toward Pershing Square along Sixth Street. After two blocks, however, the crowds were too tightly packed to walk anywhere. One thread of people was pushing along the sidewalk through the bodies.
“I have to get to work,” said one man.
“Your boss will have to understand,” replied a marcher.
When we reached Grand Avenue, one block from the square, the crowd reversed direction and started pressing north on Grand. “This way,” people yelled. The 9 am speeches were over and people were just trying to get to City Hall by 11 am for the speakers there, but all the streets from Pershing Square to City Hall were jammed with protestors.
I said a grateful goodbye to the two women still with me and stood in the crowd unable to walk anywhere. When the crowding eased, I made it to the square and sat down on a bench for an hour to eat my lunch and drink all my water and juice. There was no way to meet up with anyone in the direction of City Hall, where Ellen now was.
After an hour, I decided to try to reach City Hall. Still shaky, I walked slowly and carefully, noticing people in wheelchairs, others pushing walkers or strollers with babies in them, some even limping along with two waist-high chrome forearm crutches.
​“I was imprisoned by our government 1941-45,” said the poster above an elderly Japanese woman in a wheelchair. “Don’t let it happen again.”
​A handsome young man carried a sign saying, “They can’t stop us from being good to each other.”
When I got to the crowds around City Hall, Ellen texted that she and her friends had started home. There was no way to find her, so I stood there enjoying the chants.
Then I too started the long walk back to the Metro Center station at Seventh and Figueroa, where I encountered the other woman who had fainted. Roberta and I greeted each other like long-lost friends and rode back together.
“I still don’t feel 100%,” I confessed.
“I’ll make sure you get a seat,” she promised.
She and I told the pink-hatted riders standing around us how we had fainted, and at each station our car cheered for those who were getting off.
Two days later I went to my doctor to be checked for the fainting spell.
“I was at the march too,” he said. “I saw people fainting left and right.”
We agreed that I should have drunk a big glass of water before leaving, and that it was good to be there, in spite of everything. When two million people are marching throughout the US to protest a disastrous new president, and another million are marching around the world, I want to be there.
Thank you to all the sisters and brothers who literally held me up and marched with me.
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Anne Linstatter is a writer retired from teaching Women & Religion at California State University, Northridge. She blogs at http://www.marthaymaria.blogspot.com.